


Lamplit

by fleetwoodmactshirt



Category: Prospect (2018)
Genre: Choking (light), F/M, No Plot/Plotless, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Yearning, controversially ezra chooses to be silent (for once), no y/n
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:48:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27476803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleetwoodmactshirt/pseuds/fleetwoodmactshirt
Summary: Your partnership as harvesters is still in its infancy. Barely a few weeks old. At first, the trust between you had been fragile and hesitant. Yet in the short time you’d set up camp on this arid planet and begun the tedious task of excavation, Ezra had proven himself a competent and an affable companion.He was altogether unlike anyone you’d met before in all your years in the Fringe.From the moment you’d met him, a man who was undeniably disreputable but also politely respectful and whose eyes crinkled when he laughed, and shaken his one hand over your signed contract, you knew you wanted to know all his stories. You’d wanted to know about his lost limb and the faded scar on his cheek and all the things in between.
Relationships: Ezra (Prospect 2018)/Reader, Ezra (Prospect 2018)/You
Kudos: 28





	Lamplit

**Author's Note:**

> prompt fill: *waking up to the other counting freckles on their face*
> 
> tumblr: @fleetwoodmactshirt

Your partnership as harvesters is still in its infancy. Barely a few weeks old. At first, the trust between you had been fragile and hesitant. Yet in the short time you’d set up camp on this arid planet and begun the tedious task of excavation, Ezra had proven himself a competent and an affable companion.

He was altogether unlike anyone you’d met before in all your years in the Fringe.

From the moment you’d met him, a man who was undeniably disreputable but also politely respectful and whose eyes crinkled when he laughed, and shaken his one hand over your signed contract, you knew you wanted to know all his stories. You’d wanted to know about his lost limb and the faded scar on his cheek and all the things in between.

In years past, on previous digs, with previous crews, you’d been lucky if the silence had at least been companionable. By contrast, Ezra was seemingly a man of many lives and many stories and he was eager to share them all, at length and with aplomb.

The two of you had fallen into an easy rhythm, day after day going through the methodical motions of excavation; the monotony of it alleviated by Ezra’s dry wit and constant conversation. Companionship, friendship, had never felt so natural.

Yet the attraction that thickened the air between you at times was still uncharted territory.

You’d noticed that as liberal as he was with his speech, Ezra was measured with his movements. The touches shared between you had been few and far between.

The landscape of this barren desert was parched, and blindingly bright. The chill of the nights was burnt away before the sun hit its apex, the heat coming on quick and unmerciful. The hot gusts of air that blew across the desert were gritty but breathable; the two of you had swapped out your cumbersome filtered suits and helmets for thin, loose clothing, sun goggles to cut the glare, thick gloves, and sturdy boots.

“The quarry we pursue,” Ezra had explained that first day you’d stood at the edge of a ridge of pale rock, looking down at the dried lake bed that sat fifteen feet below, “is to be found in the rich sediments of this erstwhile lake, millions of years in the making.”

The walk down into the dry lake beds, where you’d both dive into the brine and mud to extract spellbinding specimens of salt crystals that would sell at a pretty price as wellness trinkets, was treacherous. You kept slipping on the loose rock, but every time Erza was there to catch you, steadying you with his arm around your waist.

“Most people in this world, bright eyes, don’t pay attention to what’s going on under their feet,” Ezra expounded jovially, as you’d gripped onto him nervously, the ground beneath you giving way, “but what’s underfoot is the main spectacle.”

Even with his dominant arm gone, Erza seemed at ease walking on unsteady ground. Every time, you wondered if he noticed your breath hitch at his touch, and if he did, whether he realized it wasn’t from fear at the descent.

These instances of gentlemanly assistance were the only times Ezra touched you.

He moved carefully through the living quarters you shared together. Cramped though it already was, Ezra seemed to shrink his long and lean body smaller, respectful of you and your space.

Until now.

That evening he had unthinkingly forgotten to knock before he returned into the pod’s main living space, hair still damp from his shower, and he caught you changing into your sleep clothes. The long t-shirt you wore to bed was thin and threadbare. He clearly saw the shape of you beneath it. He stared a moment too long, and you noticed but didn’t scold him.

Then he remembered himself, averted his eyes and cleared his throat. He apologized profusely. As was his habit, Ezra used ten words when two would have sufficed.

“There’s no need to be sorry”, you said resolutely. Ezra heard the rustle of fabric, and looked up to see you standing before him.

“Are you going to bed?”

“Not just yet, bright eyes, while the spirit possesses me, I, I endeavour to write a little”. Ezra was not shy about his journaling; he wrote in plain sight, balancing a makeshift desk on his knees while sitting on his cot.

Not for the first time, you lie facing him on your own cot across from his, studying him as he writes. A faint glow emanates from the small lamp he’d clipped to the wall above his cot.

The lamp was one of the few possessions he seemed to carry with him through every adventure; a motley collection of things, mostly utilitarian in nature, but with a few sentimental treasures, like the journal and ink pen, nestled among them. From what you could judge it seemed to have once been a helmet flashlight, now ripped from its suit, tinkered with, and repurposed as a reading lamp.

Its warm glow illuminates Ezra’s features, accentuating the jut of his chin, the heaviness of his brows knit with concentration, and the prominent curve of his nose.

The neckline of his shirt is wide and loose, stretched from years of wear; it hangs crookedly, exposing a swath of skin on his chest, the line of a collarbone, and the slope of one of his shoulders.

His skin has tanned deeply under the desert sun.

A cluster of freckles adorns his skin on his chest and shoulders, and others speckle the long column of his neck, and you couldn’t help but wonder if they trailed further downwards.

His blonde shock of hair catches the light, blazing like a flame; a match strike in a dark room. You wonder about it too; if it’s textured differently from the rest of his brown thatch of hair, courser or softer.

Ezra’s fingers twirl the pen absentmindedly. Tonight, his thoughts are tangled, the distance between them and the page insurmountable. In defeat, he closes the cover of his journal shut and lays it aside.

He finally looks up to see you lying on your side, watching him. He smiles at you, and his weariness dissolves into warmth.

“Penny for your thoughts, bright eyes?”

“I could ask the same of you. You seem,” and here you pause to choose your words carefully, “…distracted”.

His hesitancy to reply speaks louder than any words possibly could. Ezra has never denied you his thoughts before; he shared what he was thinking without inhibition, in a stream of consciousness chatter. It’s been one of his many traits that has endeared him to you.

The cot dips as you get up to stand before him. His eyes darken as they bore into yours. His lips are parted slightly.

Ezra knew the power of words. He could wield them like swords or drip them like honey.

Yet, Ezra knew well the power of silence too. Knew when less was more, and nothing was everything.

For what seems like the longest time, you just look at him, and then you touch his cheek. Gently, you trace the half-moon scar, the patches of beard, the curves of his eyelashes, the slope of his nose.

The silence between you is brief but you understand its meaning. Neither of you speak, but a conversation is being held between you nonetheless.

His eyes ask you a question, is this what you want, and silently you answer it: yes.

He rises up, cups your cheek, and kisses you. It is not gentle. His mouth is greedy, and rough. Breathless, you slant your mouth against his, yielding to him.

He grabs the side of your shirt, yanking you towards him. This gesture is rough too but you give in to it, falling against his firm chest. The pads of his fingertips on your cheek are calloused.

You want to touch him; you want to touch the tip of your finger to each freckle on his shoulders, on his chest, to follow wherever the path of them leads to.

You want most of all to touch his hair, the one patch lighter than the rest, to knot your fingers there and discover if at least this one part of him was soft.

His hand is fisted in the hemline of your shirt, lifting it up to caress your thigh, and then to clutch at and squeeze the cheek of your ass, grabbing generous handfuls. You moan into his mouth and he breaks away, lips curving in a smile as he admires you.

“Perchance to think, bright eyes, we could have been partaking in this weeks ago,” he chuckles, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck, “if only one of us,”, and now another kiss, “had said something”, and again, another.

Your arms encircle him, pulling him closer to you, tangling your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. Your heart flutters; it is soft.

“Why have you been so careful with me?”, you gasp. His teeth nibble at your pulse point. “In my line of work, sweetheart, one develops the habit of treating precious things with care”, his reply is soft against your skin.

Emotion and desire welling up in your chest, your mouth hungrily finds his again, tugging him by the hair into a searing kiss. With his arm around you, he lays back onto his cot, pulling you down with him. He reaches behind his head to tug his t-shirt off in one fell swoop, while you hastily rid yourself of your own.

Straddling his hips, you lean back and look down at Ezra spread out beneath you; the broad expanse of his shoulders and chest tapering into a narrow waist, softened with the small beginnings of a belly.

He lets out a shuddering breath as one of your hands trails across the freckles and scars that covered his chest and led down his belly. Scratching your nails into the faint path of hair below his belly button, your hand journeys into his sweats, grasping the hard cock that awaits you there tight enough to elicit a grunt from him.

“Hold your horses, sweetheart, there are venerations I must attend to first,” he directs you to lie back on his cot.

Divesting you of your underwear and spreading your legs, he buries his face there, brings his lips to your dripping slit, laving and lapping at the soft flesh between your folds, his rough fingers lightly pressing against your clit. You keen an aching cry, rocking your hips up into his face. You fist your hands in his soft brown hair, pushing him impossibly deeper between your legs.

“Paradise, itself”, Ezra lauds, his teeth tearing at the soft flesh of your inner thigh. Ezra’s thick fingers sink into you and you feel yourself clench around them, grinding against him as he crooks his fingers, his roguish smile just visible by the soft glow of the lamp.

“Let it happen, sweetheart,” he encourages, “I want to revel in you.” His purred orders send you hurtling over the edge and you come hard, your walls clenching down onto his fingers just as he takes your clit into his mouth and sucks hard.

“Ezra!” you exclaim. You meet the dark pools of his eyes in the near darkness.

“Wet your whistle, bright eyes, it’s fine as cream,” he orders, pulling his fingers away and bringing them up to your mouth; he traces calloused, glistening fingers along your bottom lip tenderly, smearing it with your own slickness, before you draw the digits into your mouth, sucking at your own essence and biting gently.

He huffs at that, and leans forward to trap a pert nipple in his mouth, worrying it with his teeth, and then laving at it, soothing away the sting. His fingers leave your mouth, letting you moan breathily before his hand curls around your throat lightly, a gossamer touch.

Ezra lifts his head to meet your eyes; his own dark eyes scintillate, reflecting the warm light.

“To answer your earlier query, bright eyes, I am indeed distracted tonight, as I am every night, and every day, by your commendable talents, your quick mind,” he rasps, his grip on your throat tightening slightly, “and if i may say, your comely figure”. His eyes flicker downwards to drink in your breasts, flushed and heaving.

“I, I want you too, you blabbermouth”, you gasp out, your lips tweaking in a smile. You arch your neck, pushing it firmly into his grasp. Ezra smiles genuinely at that, his eyes creasing.

He huffs out a throaty laugh, “Your economical prose shames my bloated diction, bright eyes.”

He presses a deep kiss to your mouth, sloppily and tenderly. The dual sensations of his velvety mouth engulfing yours and the harsh press of his hand against your throat are dizzying; you feel light-headed, whether from overwhelming emotion or lack of oxygen you can’t tell, and frankly, don’t care.

Finally, his mouth and hand release you. You gulp for air, desperately.

His eyes gleam in the near darkness. “Now where were we?”, he grins.

“Right here,” you whisper, your hand dragging his throbbing cock out of his sweats, pushing them down his hips. His erection bobs achingly against your hand, weeping pre-cum. You give him a long, firm stroke and a choked gasp tumbles from his lips.

“I will, that is, I’ll need to…” he stammers, uncharacteristically lost for words for a moment. Irregardless, you perceive his meaning.

“Do what will you, but whatever you do, do it carefully”, you whisper, with a sly smile.

At your words, Ezra lays himself behind you, kicking his sweats the rest of the way off his legs. You comply by turning onto your side, arching against the warm, long line of his body, and grinding your ass into his crotch.

He throws your leg over his hip for leverage, his large hand splayed across your thigh, holding you firmly to him. With a growl, he rams into you with a single slick thrust.

He presses kisses all across your shoulder and neck, sucking and biting, all while thrusting in and out of you with rough, unrelenting movements that have you gasping for air. His fingers keep a bruising grip on your hip.

“You feel immaculate, sweetheart”, he groans into your ear.

You reach behind you to grab at him, grab at his hair, revelling in the softness of it. “Ezra,” you breathe, grasping at him. You keen his name over and over, and he matches the velocity of your cries with the roll of his hips, rough and fast.

“Touch yourself,” he orders. The deliberate movements of his hips that make the cot beneath you creak are shakier now; he’s close. “I don’t aim to leave you in the lurch”, and punctuating his words with a deep thrust, he sighs, “wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me.”

Without hesitation you obey his sultry voice and your hand flies down to massage at your clit. With your thighs trembling, you come apart, gasping for air, your cunt spasms around his cock.

Ezra willfully snaps his hips a few more times, driving into you as deeply as he can, before he comes with a throaty groan, sinking his teeth deeply into the tender skin of the crook of your shoulder. You shout at the sensation of it, balanced right at the precipice between pain and pleasure, your walls fluttering. Ezra soon tongues at the mark, kissing away the pain.

Nuzzling into the valley of your neck and shoulder, he murmurs your name softly and rattles off a litany of adulations. His arm holds you tightly to him. A few moments later, he slips wetly out of you and melts bonelessly, collapsing his weight half onto you. His fingers ghost over your body, seemingly everywhere at once. Together, embracing each other, you drift into a hazy sleep.

When you awaken, in the stillness of the night, you turn to face him. Flopped onto his stomach and nestled in beside you, Ezra dozes. His soft hair is a tousled mess; the blonde tuft, which you know now is a little silkier than the rest of it, juts up at an angle.

Illuminated by the warm, low light of the small lamp, you can’t resist pressing a tender kiss to his jawline, and onto the tip of his nose. You cozy into his side, and fulfill your desire to touch him as much as you please. Your fingers gently map out the scars and freckles that speckle the expanse of his back and shoulders.

You want to memorize every mark on him; every scar, every freckle. You want to learn each story they have to tell and catalogue them in your memory as he catalogs his thoughts in his journal. You want to live in the spaces in between.

Ezra stirs at your gentle touch, blinking his eyes blearily at you. He smiles, and you smile back. Hopefully, you think, this will be a new story, one that you write together.


End file.
